


Aisle seat. 27D.

by imalwaysstraight



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Getting Together, M/M, Magic, it's a meet-cute but on an airplane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-09-27 14:22:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17163596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imalwaysstraight/pseuds/imalwaysstraight
Summary: Me≫ he’s so fkn prettyMe≫ and way too hotMe≫ and PUTTING HIS BAG IN THE BIN ABOVE MY ROW RED ALERT IM DEAD RIP MEDrill Sgt.≫ OOH U LUCKY MANDrill Sgt.≫ HAVE FUNDrill Sgt.≫ parrish?Adam Parrish could not be less happy to be on his fourth flight (and sixth vomit bag). Ronan Lynch could not be less happy to have been bumped from first class. Both of them have a lot of baggage, in every sense.





	1. of blue eyes and aisle seats

****_Me_ ≫ i am NOT ready for this

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ aww is bb parrish scared of heights?

 _Me_ ≫ shut the fuck up. don't be cruel

 _Me_ ≫ i’ve taken the three flights to get here already and only vomited five times. and now I have to go BACK

 _Me_ ≫ god knows this can only get worse

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ awh dude i’m sorry 

_Drill Sgt._ ≫ (not sarcasm i promise)

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ if it helps it’ll all be over by the end of the day. just the flight to DC, and then the flight home

 _Me_ ≫ oh fantastic only four more fucking hours of torture sounds great

 _Me_ ≫ (very much sarcasm i promise)

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ u’ll be alright smol one, don’t u worry

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ planes are almost always completely safe 

_Me_ ≫ ALMOST always, thanks, rly helpful

 _Me_ ≫ can i opt out?? take the train????

 _Me_ ≫ is there a train to henrietta?????? get me on it

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ trains r 2 slow and besides u need to learn to fly if ur going to go to ~Columbia~ u ivy league dumbass

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ just relax, deep breaths

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ remember what we practiced

 _Me_ ≫ alright

 _Me_ ≫ is it exhale for 8 seconds or exhale for 10

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ 8, but you hold for 10. you got this broski. just one more flight

 _Me_ ≫ why did i get on the plane when they first called i can’t stand sitting here waitingggg

 _Me_ ≫ watching all these people file in sooooo slowly

 _Me_ ≫ any of them could be in my row. This plane is huge

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ well it is going to DC

 _Me_ ≫ it’s just a long game of ‘try and guess who’s gonna get front row seats to watch me humiliate myself’ 

_Drill Sgt._ ≫ who are the current candidates

 _Me_ ≫ we have: a couple families with itsy bitsy children

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ omg

 _Me_ ≫ if they end up anywhere near me you’ll have to pray for me the whole ordeal

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ praying already. plus maura’s drinking tea 4 u

 _Me_ ≫ a crowd of hungover tropical-shirted tourists

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ who tf wears tropical shirts to Massachusetts 

_Me_ ≫ beats me

 _Me_ ≫ oh thank god

 _Me_ ≫ I think most of the families are past me

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ phew

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ and here i was, worried i’d have to become religious for the sake of your sanity

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ i have no clue how 2 pray. maybe i could make the sacrifice and drink tea 4 u tho

 _Me_ ≫ oh holy fucking hell 

_Drill Sgt._ ≫ ok ik i said i had no clue how to pray but i rly don’t think that’s how u do it

 _Me_ ≫ “Paging eye candy to gate B47, concourse 2. That’s eye candy to gate B47.”

 _Me_ ≫ frick this guy that just got on is HOT

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ OOOOOH 

_Me_ ≫ oh fucking hell he caught me staring and my jaw dropped a little

 _Me_ ≫ like my mouth just slid right open of its own accord kill me

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ sounds like someone’s got a little cruuuusssshhhhhh

 _Me_ ≫ shut up

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ and so fast. must be quite the boy, snap me a pic

 _Me_ ≫ no that’d be creepy af

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ ugh fine

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ at least tell me what he looks like. details r needed pls

 _Me_ ≫ like he could kill a man with his bar hands

 _Me_ ≫ *bare

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ he looks like a murderer???? Didn’t know that was your type

 _Me_ ≫ shut up

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ (i’m flattered to think i look capable of murder tho tbh js)

 _Me_ ≫ but yes essentially. Muscles. Looks like he can and will punch the shit out of an overhead bin. Could cut someone with his jawline. He’s like stalking angrily down the aisle. Also very fucking hot

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ as previously discussed

 _Me_ ≫ as previously discussed

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ don’t get urself murdered adam darling. then who would i turn to for sage advice and gossip

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ oh right i live in the sage advice and gossip 24/7 house nvm. still pls don’t die

 _Me_ ≫ oh he’s got these eyes holy shit 

_Drill Sgt._ ≫ what color

 _Me_ ≫ blue

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ what???

 _Me_ ≫ no, blue eyes. Bright blue & he’s got tan skin so it just w. Ow

 _Me_ ≫ and he has this fucking glare i can’t

 _Me_ ≫ his head is shaved and he’s got this tight black tank blue help

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ how old is he

 _Me_ ≫ our age??? I think idk i can’t tell super well, he’s still like half the plane away, but he’s young

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ oooOOOOOooooh

 _Me_ ≫ he doesn’t have anyone else w him i don’t think

 _Me_ ≫ oh, shit. Fuck me. He’s got a tattoo.

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ what where

 _Me_ ≫ idk i can see some on his shoulders. It’s a lot of tattoo it’s black

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ omg 

_Drill Sgt._ ≫ you have a thing for tattoos too?? this is sch an educational experience!!!!

 _Me_ ≫ well if I didn’t I do now

 _Me_ ≫ ohmgdo he just caught me looking AGAIN and he fucking smirked i am BLUSHING shit send help

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ WOWOWOW

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ how tall is he

 _Me_ ≫ taller than u

 _Me_ ≫ so like decently average height for a dwarf

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ haha. fuck u, fight me

 _Me_ ≫ oh no, my ankles are screaming in fear

 _Me_ ≫ jk he’s super tall

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ remember that thing about ur type being murderous. might have to take u up on that murder offer

 _Me_ ≫ he’s taller than me

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ not by 2 much i hope

 _Me_ ≫ no he seems to be clearing the ceiling alright

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ so ur perfect height hmm

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ wink wink nudge nudge

 _Me_ ≫ shut uuuup

 _Me_ ≫ fuuuuuuuck blue this guy is a piece of work

 _Me_ ≫ he still hasn’t sat down yet 

_Drill Sgt._ ≫ you need better comebacks than just shut up

 _Me_ ≫ shut up.

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ wish i could see. try not to actually physically drool and/or pop a boner

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ should be illegal to look good while travelling tho

 _Me_ ≫ he’s so fkn pretty 

_Me_ ≫ and way too hot

 _Me_ ≫ and PUTTING HIS BAG IN THE BIN ABOVE MY ROW RED ALERT IM DEAD RIP ME 

_Drill Sgt._ ≫ OOH U LUCKY MAN

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ HAVE FUN

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ parrish? still alive?

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ alright well remember to breathe, to put ur phone on airplane mode, and that if u hookup in the bathroom make it quick cause ppl are prob waiting

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ climb him like a motherfuckin tree adam

 

“That’s my seat.” _Oh,_ thought Adam. _Shit_ . He hadn’t had very much time to plan this interaction out in his head—just a split second, really, which had been occupied almost entirely by trying not to look at the strip of toned stomach exposed as murder man lifted/threw/javelined his duffel bag into the overhead bins—but this was certainly _not_ how he’d expected it to go. 

“Pardon?” Adam asked, accidental drawl slipping out as he focused on setting down his rapidly-buzzing phone and not having an aneurysm. The words had been perfectly clear, he was just stalling for time. His brain needed a second or two to catch up to his pulse.

“You’re in my seat.” Piece Of Work opened his fist, which was (terrifyingly enough) right at Adam’s eye level, and held up a very crumpled ticket. _R LYNCH_ , it read. “Aisle seat. 27D.”

Adam steeled himself and dragged his eyes upward to look murder man in the face. “Oh.” Those eyes were even bluer up close, if that was at all possible. Was he wearing a little bit of _eyeliner_? God. “I thought—maybe I’m supposed to have the window. Sorry.” Trying his best to look decidedly not-nauseous, he grabbed his backpack off the floor and scooted all the way across the three-seat row, shoving the bag back under the seat in front of him. 

As per usual, Blue had been frustratingly right. The window seat did have more of a view than the aisle, just like she had pointed out while trying to quell his panic before the first flight. But that was exactly the problem with it.

He sighed to himself forlornly. He'd thought he might be able to make it through the last two legs of the five-flight travel hell that was Admitted Students Weekend without vomiting, but any hope of that was now officially far, far gone.

“These yours?” Adam broke away from staring at the tarmac to see Piece Of Work holding up his crappy earbuds he’d let Blue buy him at a gas station for his 16th birthday, the slightly-more-expensive kind with over-ear clips to keep them in while he worked on cars.

“Shoot, yeah,” he replied. One of the earbuds looked more crushed than usual, and the other was a funny sort of mangled that bent the laws of physics a little. “Thanks.”

“I sat on them.”

“What?”

“I think I sat on them. Sorry. That's why they're kind of--” He made a crunching gesture with his hand, and his face screwed up in a strangely dorky way for someone capable of an Adam-Parrish-decimating smirk. “Here,” he said, and practically threw the earbuds at Adam before rummaging through the backpack he'd shoved beneath the seat in front of him. He pulled out a sleep mask. It struck Adam as a strange choice of flight attire for a teenage boy who looked as though he beat people up professionally but did underwear modeling on the side for fun. But then he saw that it had ornate floral embroidery across the front that read 'STFU,’ and it seemed a little less out of character somehow.

Adam turned back to the window and stared at the tarmac as the plane prepared for takeoff. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. This was the fourth flight he'd taken this weekend, and also the fourth flight he'd ever taken. He was basically an old pro. Maybe he wouldn’t vomit more than twice.

 

It had taken him almost 24 hours of transit to get to Columbia on the way there: Blue had dropped him off at the tiny airport an hour’s drive from Henrietta, and from there he’d taken a flight to DC, and from there to JFK. But on the way back—because the universe hated him—he’d taken an ass-backward set of flights from New York to Boston and now was heading from Boston to DC, where he would catch a final flight to the regional airport, because “there had been some scheduling difficulties with the airline,” the woman at Columbia’s admission office had said. They were paying to fly him out, so it wasn’t as though he could do anything more aggressive than call and politely ask if there was any way to take fewer flights. She’d been apologetic enough, but it had done nothing to quell his sheer panic.

It wasn’t that Adam was afraid of heights. He was afraid of falling. More precisely, he was afraid that the thing that finally undid him would be an accident. Adam was no stranger to being harmed, but he did his best these days to inflict it on his own terms, not on the terms of some barely trained pilot. Or _five_ barely trained pilots. He had looked up the licensing requirements. They seemed rather thin.

Oh, the plane was taxiing now. Great.

No, it was anything but the heights: once he was up in the air he could actually enjoy glancing out the window every now and then, trying to take in the miles of countryside racing by beneath him. _You’re escaping_ , something in him hummed, ecstatic, breathless. By the time the plane was coming into New York three days ago, he’d even managed to appreciate the jaw-dropping view of the city he got from up here, to wonder at the tiny taxis and tiny streetlights and tiny skyscrapers and even tiny people-shaped specks. New Yorkers. Imagine. 

But it was difficult to forget that a plane was just a complicated hunk of aluminum and steel, a technologically advanced airborne tin can. It was held together by the same nuts and bolts and welds that Adam saw snapped to pieces on cars every damn day. Except this wasn’t something you could call a tow truck for.

So despite Adam’s awe at seeing New York City for the first time, and sheer excitement at finally getting to an Ivy, he had retched into a paper bag the entire descent, and almost passed out. And then, of course, his personal hell was not over, because naturally JFK was still a bus ride and then a subway ride and then a bus ride and then a subway ride away from Columbia.

Airplanes were necessary evils, unfortunately, for this whole college concept. He’d almost decided to take a few extra days off and drive up to New York, but a confluence of rising gas prices, mounting schoolwork, and an irate Blue Sargent had thoroughly nixed that option. “For God’s sake, Adam,” he could practically still hear her yelling in his good ear. “They are literally giving you a ticket out of here. So take it!”

Oh, no, wait. That was someone else talking, and it wasn’t the safety video Blue had teased him for making flashcards about.

“Sorry?” Adam choked out, turning towards the boy sitting on his deaf side, who was apparently awake and in need of his attention. In all of his panic about flying, he’d managed to forget he was there, although he was still as terrifying and gorgeous as ever.

“Here,” R. Lynch said again, and held out his hand. In it sat a good-as-new version of Adam’s crumpled earbuds.

“What?” said Adam, taking them. “Wait, did you just, like, have these? It’s fine, don’t--”

Lynch shook his head. “Nah, man, I’m not—I wasn’t gonna use them anyway. They were a gift.”

“Don’t worry, folks,” cut in the captain over the loudspeakers. “We’re gonna be in the air in just a second. The plane in line in front of us is taking off as we speak.”

Oh, lovely.

“Okay,” he said to Lynch, pocketing the earbuds. “Thanks.” Weird. Supremely weird. And awkward. He’d never had time or opportunity to learn how to flirt, but he was pretty sure this was not how you did it. Not that he would try to flirt with him if he knew how, or anything. Lynch was the definition of out of his league.

The plane jerked forward, and a loud humming started to build. Oh god. No matter what Blue had said, deep breathing was not going to work. That much was clear from the moment the engines started whirring, churning their way inside his good eardrum, because deep breathing could not fix a broken engine, deep breathing could not quell his overwhelming vertigo, deep breathing could not awaken an unconscious pilot, deep breathing could not––

He squeezed his eyes shut tight and considered following his landlady's advice and taking up religion seriously. You could do that on the spot in exigent circumstances, couldn’t you? Adam could feel every millimeter of the runway underneath the wheels, the rumbling soaking into his bones and shaking him up in all the wrong ways. He tucked his head into his chest as if bracing for impact, and someone was talking, but he couldn’t hear or be bothered to care as the engines became deafening. Adam mentally mapped out where the vomit bag was, gripped the armrests, and despite having spent most of his life certain that God had long given up on him, prayed.


	2. in the rear view

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Procrastination is a powerful force, so now another chapter of this exists! 
> 
> TW for canon-typical, vague (and typical Ronan-ish) reference to self-destructive drinking.

Adam was too fucking pretty.

Ronan Lynch was trying not to think about this fact—this “self-evident axiom,” chirped the Ganseyest of the voices in his head—for three reasons.

One, because Ronan was stuck on this plane with him for at least another two hours, and the primary emotion that he had been preparing to experience at cruising altitude was a steady-simmering anger.

He had reason to be angry. Declan’s stupid fucking personal assistant had fucking booked him a flight out of stupid fucking Boston Logan, and so he’d had to wake up early and take a flight to get there from stupid fucking JFK, only to discover once he arrived that he’d been bumped from first class. “I’m sorry, sir, we overbooked,” the gate agent had explained, in a very measured and prim tone of voice that had clearly been crafted for people who didn’t look as menacing as Ronan, something it seemed both he and the agent were realizing at the same time.

He was not going to throw a fit—he was not _that_ type of asshole, he decided in that moment—but it still sucked.

Two, because Ronan had known that Adam Parrish was too fucking pretty as soon as he’d seen him. He’d been looking out the window, and the mid-afternoon light had hit his lips and cheek just—just in a _frustrating_ way. Ronan’s gut had swooped at the sight, and then, thanks to all the Catholic guilt that he wished he could pry off of himself, his gut had swooped a second time immediately afterwards in a distinctly less pleasant way. Plus, the whole walk down the aisle, Adam had kept catching him looking at him, and Ronan had kept trying to play it off in a ‘what are _you_ looking at, punk?’ kind of way that he was almost certain hadn’t worked.

By the time he’d realized that _this_ was the seat he got bumped to, this one next to Adam, he was fully done with the universe. Then he’d promptly sat on Adam’s shitty earbuds. They had clearly been precious: they had a little handmade shrinky-dink charm attached to them, which read “Adam,” in curlicue, effeminate handwriting. Definitely an overbearing girlfriend with an unfortunate arts and crafts bent—he hadn’t tried to recreate the charm when he dreamed, but he was tempted to, just to show off, just to one-up whichever girl owned Adam’s stupid pretty heart and got to write all over it in ridiculous handwriting.

No part of this interaction—not even Adam’s prettiness—had improved how his day was going.

The third reason Ronan was definitely not going to think at all about how fucking pretty Adam was: currently, Adam was in a very unpretty state. He was shaking, and hyperventilating, and maybe crying a little bit, and worst of all, he had grabbed Ronan’s hand in the empty middle seat between them, and now held it in a death grip.

“Hey—hey, Adam?” Ronan asked, tentatively. “Adam, you’re fine. It’s all good. Takeoff is over. You’re good.” He tried to focus. He absolutely was not thinking about the fact that Adam had grabbed his hand.

Adam wouldn’t, probably couldn't stop hyperventilating. Shit. “Adam,” he said again. “Adam, you’re gonna be fine.”

Names helped, usually, when he was like this, when Noah was like this, when Gansey was like this.

It was a position that Ronan wished he was less familiar with. “Can you open your eyes? C'mon, Adam, look at me.”

Ronan leaned all the way across the row and slammed the window shade shut. “There.” Adam smelled like overscented shampoo and hotel linens, noted the sliver of his brain that was the least obedient, and he had finally cracked his eyes open. “Keep looking at me,” Ronan continued as he returned to his seat. “Good. You're doing good. We're gonna breathe in for three seconds, okay?”

Slowly, he coached him through longer and longer breaths, until he was gasping in air, finally.

“Is everything okay over here?” A flight attendant with fluorescent red lipstick was leaning into their row.

“I think so? Adam, is there anything she can get you?” Adam shook his head. He could barely exhale, much less get words out. “Could you get us some water?” Ronan asked.

“Sure thing, hun,” she cooed before slipping back down the aisle. Ronan tried not to care about the way she’d worded it.

He turned back away from Adam to lean back, give him some space. He left his hand in the center seat.

“At least I didn't throw up on you,” Adam managed to choke out a couple of minutes later, letting go of his hand and wiping at his face, trying to get the tears off.

“What?”

“At least I didn't puke. I puked the last three times. Sorry, it's my first—I had never flown before this weekend.”

“Oh.” Ronan wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Mostly, he was surprised that there were people in this country who’d never been on a plane, which, he was realizing, he should’ve known logically. There would be people who could not afford an economy class plane ticket.

He tried to act not-surprised. “Good for you.” He tried to make what was objectively a very Gansey response sound as unGansey as possible. He tried not to think about how poor you’d have to be to have never been on a plane until you were an adult. About how small the world might seem. It was too Gansey of a line of thought.

The flight attendant handed him a plastic cup of water, which he passed to Adam, who said in what Ronan was now noticing was an irritatingly beautiful drawl, “Thank you, ma’am.” That was the kind of voice that that boy was meant to wear. He made its dips and curves strangely graceful-sounding.

“You're brave, though,” said Ronan, when he was done with the water. “To get on the plane at all.”

Adam did not seem to know what to say to that. Ronan did not know what to say to his silence, and so he looked at the seat in front of him now, not Adam, until Adam said, quietly, “thanks.” Ronan snorted and pulled his sleep mask (Noah’s Christmas gift, and one of the better things Ronan had ever owned) back over his eyes.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed again.

In the dream, he was in Cabeswater, of course, and Chainsaw was pecking about near the lake. Gansey was laying on the grass with his head in Ronan’s lap, going on about all the usual things Gansey went on about.

Things were right. Things weren’t their usual tragedy. No parents were dead or comatose. There was nothing Ronan couldn’t fix.

But then something creaked, and with an ache and a whine, continued creaking, longer than it should’ve, longer than physics normally would’ve allowed, down and down until after several minutes of creaking an enormous pine tree careened into the earth across the clearing from them. The ground trembled when it landed. Gansey paid it no attention, and kept talking.

Pine needles and dust floated up in a cloud where it landed, and once they’d settled, standing behind the stump was Adam, fiercely elegant and decidedly alien.

He was holding an axe, and then he was holding a bouquet of lilies, and then he was holding a braided length of rope soaked in what Ronan knew somehow was Adam’s own blood, and then he was holding a huge, very old-looking book, and then he was holding a candle.

The candle went out. The plane jolted to a landing. Ronan woke up.

 

“I know, it doesn’t make any sense to me either. It doesn’t make any sense, period. Tell that to Declan’s stupid secretary.”

Gansey was unmollified by this. “But you should’ve just driven down from New York! Declan could’ve just given you his car, or rented you one! It would have been easier than flying all the way north—”

“Gansey. It’s whatever.” Ronan unlatched and relatched his tray table. This plane, which was going to drop them at the regional airport the next county over from Henrietta, was so small that his side of the aisle only had one seat in each row. In recognition of this, he stretched his legs out a little more obnoxiously. “I’ll live.”

Gansey paused, clearly still unsatisfied. “Something’s off. You’re too patient.” Ronan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Trust Gansey to pick up on something like that.

“It’s nothing. I just had a weird dream on the last flight.”

Perhaps this was maybe what he definitely should have not said.

“You slept?! You _dreamt_ ? On a plane! _Ronan_!” Ronan could picture the way Gansey was gesticulating. The pacing about Monmouth, the hand running through hair.

“It’s okay. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t bring anything back, right?”

Ronan squished the fistful of pine needles and cooled candle wax in the pocket of his hoodie. “Nothing serious.”

“Ronan—”

“Gotta put it on airplane mode, Dick.”

“Ronan! You—”

“See you at the airport.” He hung up, and immediately felt a little bit bad about it. Gansey was right. He shouldn’t have been sleeping on a plane, let alone dreaming. Not the first time or the second.

But he hadn’t been in a night-horrorish place lately: he usually wasn’t when he had recently been to New York (definitely thanks to Matthew’s presence, not Declan’s). And he hadn’t really known what else to do at that point, having made things sufficiently awkward with the boy sitting next to him.

Once landed, they had filed off the plane without so much as looking at each other. Ronan was fine with it. He was too fucking pretty anyways.

He had held Ronan's  _hand_.

Speaking of.

“‘Scuse me, ma’am,”

Adam was sidling down the aisle of the plane in front of him, looking at the ground. Great. Just great. Of course he’s also on this plane. _That’s fine._

He couldn’t figure out if Adam hadn’t noticed him or had chosen not to look his way. The plane was too small for a first class section, so Adam ended up just a couple rows in front of him.

This was stupid. This was ridiculous. He should start driving to and from the DC airport skipping the flight to the next county over from Henrietta altogether. He should buy a private plane.

Ronan spent the twenty minute duration of the flight thinking pointedly about private planes, and not about the obscenely polite conversation Adam was making with the elderly woman next to him.

 

Gansey was on his cell phone, because of course he was. The Camaro was one of six or seven vehicles in the vastly oversized arrivals lane of the New River Valley airport, but its hulking orange hood seemed to take up the whole space. Ronan was happy to see this, if only because it confirmed that nothing had changed since he’d been gone.

Except—standing next to Gansey, leaning against his car and struggling to hold an oversized bike upright, was an irritatingly short girl, who seemed to have used a barrette for each individual strand of hair. Between the hair situation and an equally irritating sparkly jacket, she looked like an itinerant sequin. A disco ball who did odd jobs for spare cash.

Ronan was generally less pleased than he had been a moment ago. “Dick,” he said as he came through the door, duffel bag over one shoulder. Gansey gave him a wave and a smile and said “oh, that’s really interesting” and “I’ll have to follow up on that” into his phone.

Ronan looked at him, and then at the pygmy disco ball, who also looked generally displeased.

“The fuck are you?” Ronan asked, as kindly as he possibly could.

“None of your beeswax,” said the girl. She considered him coolly. “The fuck is your problem?”

Ronan grinned. “Five months ago, I found my dad dead in our driveway with his brains on the pavement, and now my mother’s comatose, and I’m only allowed to see my baby brother once a month so he doesn’t have to watch as I try to drink myself dead. Glad you asked?”

The girl gaped at him. He could sense Gansey in conniptions somewhere to his left while trying to hang up the phone, and instead of dealing with that, he decided to reach for the door behind the girl in front of him. “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said, still sneering, and she stepped out of his way, still slackjawed.

The passenger seat of the Camaro smelled like mint and strawberry-banana yogurt. Ronan sighed and threw his bag in the back, as careless as he could be without chucking it directly at the pile of old books back there.

This day had started out well. Matthew had ordered in hashbrowns and pancakes from the diner down the street, and had somehow managed to get maple syrup on the ceiling of his apartment in a couple places. And now—

“Ronan!” Gansey was saying, scrambling into the front seat. “Ronan, what on _earth_ do you think you’re doing? Jane deserves none of that—that animosity!”

Jane, apparently, was hauling her bike into the trunk and then herself into the backseat, making slightly more of a ruckus with Ronan’s shit than was strictly necessary.

Ronan turned to Gansey. “This day has been fuck-all hell. Let’s get the fuck out.”

Gansey gave him a look. “We’re actually still waiting for someone.” He turned to the backseat. “I really am so sorry for his behavior, Jane; it was uncalled for, to say the least.” When Gansey spoke, you could hear the semicolons. “Do you think there’s still space back there?”

“I think so,” said Jane. “He’s flexible.” She sounded more demure now, more diminutive. Ronan almost felt bad about it. She had been mean, but she had been fun.

Whatever.

He pulled out his phone to text Matthew that he had landed. Just as he finished typing it, he heard the back door swing open, and the second half of whatever charity case Gansey was currently in the middle of got in. Ronan didn’t look up from his phone. Matthew had sent him a photo of the maple syrup stain, which was proving hilariously difficult to remove. 

Gansey was in the middle of trying to say, “It is positively lovely to meet you,” in a voice that implied that absolutely no one in this car had ever been rude to one another ever, when a shocked voice said “Oh,” from the backseat, like the word was being coughed up. Ronan flashed an annoyed glance up at the rear view mirror, then looked back down at his phone, then looked back up at the mirror.

Adam looked back at him.  



	3. black magic

This was fine. Everything was fine.

Adam conducted a reasoned discussion with himself as he used the bathroom at Nino’s, and after much deliberation, as he strained to pump the very last few drops of sickly-floral pink soap out of the dispenser, he arrived at the conclusion that everything was what Orla would have referred to as “just peachy.”

Oh, Orla. Now that was someone whom he had never thought he would _ever_ miss as badly as he did right then. More specifically, he missed Orla’s valid Virginia driver’s license and beige 2009 Toyota sedan. It was cluttered with receipts, and had a mostly-broken transmission, and was driven by someone who was generally uninterested in using her turn signal and instead _far_ too interested in the fact that he and Blue used to date.

But all of that was, he had to admit as he scrubbed his hands free of airport germs, far preferable to the Camaro, which was cluttered with Raven Boys, and had an almost-broken everything, and was driven by someone who wore polo shirts sans irony and was apparently roommates with Ronan Lynch.

Blue had informed him of the change in airport pickup plans last night: that Orla had had to reschedule a date (with whom, Blue wanted badly to know; her money was on a local radio DJ who wasn’t very funny but thought he was. He had once dedicated “Black Magic Woman” to “a very lovely witchy lady,” which had made Orla blush violently at the kitchen table and had made Maura very curious and had made Calla pour herself another drink). Very conveniently, Blue had met someone later that day at Nino’s, who had offered to drive them home from the airport when he had learned that Adam would be coming in on the same flight as his friend.

He was nice, Blue had said over the phone as Adam had laid on the floor of the dorm room he’d been put up in. “Very Aglionby,” she elaborated, “but nice.” He had come in alone for a slice, and managed to chat her up without making her feel like he might grope her, which was a feat that few Raven Boys had ever attempted, let alone accomplished. And he was well-groomed, and he had tipped generously.

And—most importantly—he had a car, and was legally qualified to drive it.

They had stopped at Nino’s so Adam could use the bathroom and Blue could coerce Cialina into giving them an extra-large pepperoni for free. Blue insisted on repaying the Raven Boy for the ride with pizza (which the boy had adamantly argued was unnecessary—“it was my pleasure to drive you, really absolutely no trouble”—even as he obediently piloted them directly to Nino’s).

When Adam left the bathroom, the Raven Boy was trying valiantly to slip a 20 to Cialina without Blue noticing, which was proving both difficult and offensive. He was not a particularly subtle boy, and she was not a particularly demure woman.

“Stop that!” She looked like she was considering stomping on his boat-shoed toes.

“I just want to repeat that there’s no need for you to pay me back, Jane, I’m quite sorry if I offended you—”

Also, he kept calling her Jane for some reason.

Blue rolled her eyes, took the pizza box from Cialina, plucked the boy’s $20 out of his well-manicured, manly hand, and stuck it in the pocket in Cialina’s apron reserved for tips. She looked at him like he should feel lucky that his toes had only barely lived another day. He looked bewildered. Cialina looked bemused.

Adam smiled a little bit. It was good for the boy to learn that Blue Sargent could be whatever she wanted to be, including ruthless.

“Adam,” the boy said, seeing him. “You look refreshed.” Adam tried not to laugh at this.

“Thanks, Dick.”

“Please, call me Gansey,” Gansey said endearingly, and oh, right, that was his name. He was regal, even in his polo, and imperious, and gentle, and boyish, and powerful, and kind of made Adam want to be him, and kind of made Adam want to—

“Dick,” huffed Ronan from across the restaurant, half-name, half-noun. “Let’s get out of here.”

Oh, right. Ronan Lynch. Adam let himself glance over Gansey’s pressed-polo shoulder, at the hulking, tattooed Raven Boy lounging in the booth closest to the door, who looked away as soon as Adam made eye contact.

Yes, that was why this day might not have been quite peachy after all.

He had almost lost his shit when he’d realized that it was Ronan sitting in the passenger seat, and had sat there frozen for maybe ten minutes thereafter. Then Gansey said, off-hand, “forgive me, this is Ronan, my roommate, who is usually not this terrible,” which had not caused Ronan to acknowledge Adam’s presence in the slightest. Adam remembered that he could text, rather than waiting to tell Blue.

 

 _Me_ ≫ blue that’s the man

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ what??

 _Me_ ≫ the man. the one in front of you

 _Me_ ≫ that’s hot plane guy

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

This was Blue’s way of screaming over text. Adam looked over at her, and she was looking at him slightly wide-eyed and perfectly still, like she was trying not to scream in real life. Frankly, so was he.

 

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ NO

 _Me_ ≫ I KNOW

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ NO WAY

 _Me_ ≫ UNFORTUNATELY YES WAY. THAT IS HIM. I AM DECEASED

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ OH MY GOD do you think he recognizes you holy shit

 

Adam looked up at him. Ronan was staring studiously at the fields they were driving past, as if he had never seen corn stalks before.

 

 _Me_ ≫ idk he held my hand

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ he what.... adam dearest what is happening.

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ is the world ending adam what is going ON what HAPPENED ON THE PLANE did he propose did you get married

 _Me_ ≫ no! N O we spent most of it not talking after we both realized he was holding my hand. Like i was losing my shit during takeoff and when i came to he was holding my hand

 _Me_ ≫ also he gave me a pair of earbuds? Idk it was kind of awkward once we had stopped talking to each other but he seemed nice

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ adam you can’t be into him

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ he’s an asshole

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ like exceptionally assholeish. and a raven boy

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ also it sounds like he’s going thru some shit rn. something w his father

 _Me_ ≫ how long were you talking to him before i got here????? did u get his memoir

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ point is, what the hell adam

 _Me_ ≫ look i didn’t choose to have him be hot, or sit next to me on some random plane, or be friends with your new chauffeur boyfriend

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ u think ur real funny, mister

 _Drill Sgt._ ≫ do not play jealous i’ll take u seriously. and don’t make me consult the psychics on this one

 

“Nino’s is at 3rd and Main, correct?” asked Gansey as he took the Henrietta exit, in a way that commanded response. Ronan snorted next to him.

“I believe so,” said Blue. “And you’re going to let me pay you back.”

 

They got out of the car at Monmouth Manufacturing all irritated in their own individualized ways. They hadn’t meant to end up there, but the Camaro was about to rumble itself to death and they were “just down the street,” according to Gansey, and just like that Adam, who had been planning to spend this evening reading his AP Macroeconomics textbook in the pews so he wouldn’t have to pay for the electricity needed to turn his lamp on, was sitting on a probably-artisanal rug, next to an elaborate scale model of Henrietta that had yet to be explained to him, eating a slice of extra-large pepperoni pizza at a self-consciously slow rate.

Blue sat across from him, making furious eye contact. Adam wiggled his eyebrows back, and she rolled her eyes. He had been hanging out with Persephone a lot, but sometimes he still wasn’t sure how to read Blue Sargent.

“You’re a student at Mountain View, then, Adam?” Gansey was asking. He was eating his pizza with a fork and knife, and Adam tried very hard to ignore it.

“Yup,” said Adam. “And you’re at Aglionby?”

“Indeed. Blue tells me you’re going to Columbia.”

Adam blushed a little bit, despite himself. Coming out of Gansey’s mouth, that fact felt like the laurel wreath that Adam wanted it to be, despite his better instincts. “I guess.”

“Well, congratulations,” said Gansey, and you could tell that he meant it. “I’ll be at Harvard in the fall, actually, so also up that way.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Adam.

Harvard had waitlisted him. He was actually still a little bit mad about it; it still stung to hear the name out loud, an examinable and attainable object in someone else’s life. He had wanted to be Cambridge’s darling child. He thought he was good enough.

He hated himself for thinking that, though—for the elitism inherent in it, and for the way it allowed his most ugly parts, his pride and envy, to get their grubby hands on even the most precious thing he had achieved so far.

Besides, he reasoned, at a certain level they were really all the same anyway, if his spreadsheets of statistics and programs and fellowships were anything to go by.

And New York. New York was something Adam hadn’t expected himself to love at all, but watching it pass by on the bus, or standing in line at the bagel shop down the street from campus, or clustered in among all those strangers on the subway, he decided that he would let himself be cliched and adore it.

Places shaped people so distinctly. You could not escape your hometown without a good bit of hard work—without becoming someone else. Adam had _been_ Henrietta his whole life, and would have been Henrietta for the rest of it.

But now he had the perfect way out.

He was going to kick Columbia’s ass. He was going to kick New York’s ass. Adam Parrish, Upper West Side edition would not recognize Adam Parrish, Henrietta edition once he was done with Columbia.

“What are you studying?” Gansey was in the middle of asking when the door of Ronan’s room slammed shut. All of the photocopies of speeding tickets taped onto it fluttered, a synchronized sea of carefully-coordinated recklessness. Ronan had changed clothes, into a different black hoodie, and now had a large, black, carnivorous-looking bird perched on his shoulder as he stalked over to the bathroom. He was so _tall_ , Adam thought. And so viscerally angry.

“What the fuck?” said Blue, through a mouthful of pizza. _Indeed_ , intoned a Gansey-like voice in Adam’s head, before he could stop himself. Gansey really didn’t deserve to be mocked, at least not right now.

“Oh,” said real-life Gansey. “That’s Chainsaw,” like it was perfectly self-explanatory from there.

Ronan came out of what Adam had thought was the bathroom holding an industrial-sized bottle of ranch dressing. His tattoo glinted in the evening light. Adam could’ve sworn it moved, swam about under the raven’s claws.

“Is she the Aglionby mascot?” Adam asked solemnly, truly unable to stop himself this time.

Ronan huffed a disdainful laugh as he sat down next to Gansey. It was Blue, then Gansey, then Ronan, sitting in a row, three against one. Adam was displeased by this configuration.

He was also displeased by the fact that Ronan had made his pulse jump dramatically. He looked untouchable, in the way Adam wanted to be.

“No, she’s not, actually,” said Gansey, taking his joke seriously. “Although I think she would enjoy that line of work.”

“Antimascot, more like,” growled Ronan.

“Are you taking down Aglionby from the inside, then?” asked Blue.

“Ideally.” Ronan cracked open the ranch and poured it liberally across his slice. He radiated something that Adam couldn’t place, something like his tattoo, inky and intricate. And he was very pretty. Adam consciously allowed himself that thought.

“So,” Gansey said, and they all listened closely. “Tell me—do either of you know anything about Welsh kings?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I have had this chapter and a couple more written for a long time and finally decided to post them— here's hoping that motivates me to write the rest haha. Please let me know what you think (constructive crit v welcome)!!!


End file.
